


Paper Faces On Parade

by sasha_b



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: BrOT4, F/M, Gen, Hurt/Comfort, Past Athos/Milady - Freeform, Season/Series 01 Spoilers, Treat
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-06
Updated: 2014-12-06
Packaged: 2018-02-28 10:02:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,736
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2728250
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sasha_b/pseuds/sasha_b
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Post season one, Athos and a masked ball and a run in with his past.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Paper Faces On Parade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ghostie](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ghostie/gifts).



> Spoilers for season one.

The whisper of soft silk floats through the air, music that’s gentle and almost too quiet. Athos, resplendent in fine leather and perfectly shaped new hat, stands erect in a tight corner of the palace, wall to his back, eyes on everything all at once.

He studiously ignores the couples whirling around him, the dancing something he knows how to do expertly but hasn’t in many years (five, but he’s not counting) and he nods at Aramis, who is in the opposite corner. The other musketeer is smiling broadly, watching the dancers, eyes following every slip of beautiful woman that crosses close enough to him to see.

Masks cover the party goer’s faces; Aramis had argued briefly with Athos about _their_ wearing them as well, but Athos had merely given him a look and Aramis had sighed in resignation. The other man had gotten his way – at least partly, as both of them were dressed smartly and in mostly new uniforms. Only their greatcoats and pauldrons were still the same old pieces. Athos fingered his shoulder, the marks on the pauldron deep and scarred and representative of his life as a soldier. He had every right to be proud of it.

And yet, there were many days when he’d like to throw it out the window and into the trash that littered the streets of Paris.

He loves the musketeers. He loves being a warrior and having a purpose and doing something that isn't just existing, drinking and whoring and fighting and sleeping – or not, as he’s more likely to lay on his bed, staring at the ceiling, trying to remember why he’s alone and doing what he’s doing.

He’s not sorry he threw out the necklace. He _was_ saving himself. He doesn’t need the pain and the sorrow and the loss of Milady – Anne – any more. He has his brothers and his job and now, d’Artagnan, who’s a fantastic way to distract and learn how to train someone again. The boy has promise, and Athos smiles tightly as he watches the masked dancers.

Someone bumps his arm and apologizes. It’s a young woman, her gown jeweled and sparkling, hundreds of pearls sewn on the bodice, glitter on her skin, her white bosom high and lovely and her skin like peaches.

Perhaps he’s more lonely than he thought.

“Madame,” he murmurs; a small bow of his head. The lamps and torches about the large hall bring lights and a smoldering glow to everything; he shakes his head as she curtsies an apology and squeezes past him, holding onto the hand of the partner Athos hadn’t seen. He breathes in deeply and the scent of jasmine, sweat, and freshly washed hair assails him – he blinks and steps closer to the wall.

The queen had requested their presence at this party; Athos narrows his eyes as he catches sight of Aramis, now watching the lady in question as she holds court at the head of the room, her swelling pregnancy showing. Athos’ mouth pinches and he widens his eyes, their brightness zeroing in on the other musketeer, boring holes in the side of Aramis’ hatted head. He waits – Aramis finally looks at him, and merely smiles wryly, which for some reason makes Athos grumpy.

He shoves off the wall and stalks through the dancing crowd, their masks oddly frightening and off kilter, the wearer’s eyes bright and shiny under the layers of fabric. Athos wonders if the two glasses of port he’d had before this were beginning to get to him. But he gains the outside and the cool air is a boon and he sighs, his chest loosening, his hands unflexing from his sides.

There’s a woman outside, leaning on the railing. The wind picks up and Athos turns away from her, her dress full skirted and a deep blue – he doesn’t want to speak to anyone, but as he meanders down the walk, hand touching the railing, he can hear the woman’s footfalls behind him.

He shakes his head and opens his mouth.

“Do you need help, Madame?”

“Not from you.”

_Wait._

He whirls, his right boot catching a crack – his head pounding, his throat dry, the stars blinding him momentarily – 

“I told you to leave Paris.”

The words are thunderous, threatening, a typhoon of anger and emotion, ice freezing his veins and spilling from his lips, and despite not wanting to get anywhere near her, he takes three quick steps and presses Milady – Anne – to the small balustrade, its ornamental filigree catching her skirts and tearing them. The mask she wears covers almost all of her face; only her full mouth shows, and her white skin that Athos can imagine being covered by his hand.

The feathers attached to the mask match the color of the ones he wears on his hat, and he growls in anger as she merely cocks an eyebrow and crosses her arms, pushing him away, her perfectly manicured fingers hesitating on his jacket, the worn leather a thin barrier between the two of them.

“Why would I do that? I have a right to be here, just as much as you do,” her voice is honey and silk and he shudders, the tree and the rope and Remy and his eyes narrow to flint, sparks and lightning and he rests his hand on his sword.

“You have committed numerous crimes, Madame. Too many for any person to be allowed to live free. But I let you. And I told you to go. And you should have.”

“Such anger,” she sighs, her skirts swirling around him as she walks in a circle about him, the night wind chilling him – perhaps that was the fury that threatened to take what was left of his soul. He looks at her from under the brim of his hat, and she stops.

“I have things to do here, Athos,” she shakes her head. “I cannot let you and your toy soldiers stand in my way.” She straightens and her back is a rod, her face as much a mask as the paper one she wears. She does not remove it.

“The cardinal will fall. Sooner rather than later.”

“You think I’m playing his children’s games any more? There is so much coming you can’t possibly prepare yourself for, my love. It will sweep you and your compatriots off your feet and into Hell in its wake,” Milady purses her red lips and steps to his side, the feathers she wears brushing his bearded cheek. “Don’t say I never did anything for you. Olivier,” her breath tickles his ear and her hand unfolds his fingers, dropping something into it.

He looks down and when he looks up again, his left hand on his rapier, she is gone, and Aramis is next to him, breathing heavily, concern on his familiar face, elegance and alarm etching lines in his skin. “Athos,” he says, his rapid movements slowing as he realizes Athos is fine and in no mortal danger. “Who was that?”

“No one important,” Athos bites off, and seals his fingers over the thing Milady had given him. He raises his eyes to the sky and the music from inside seems to get louder and everything is as it should be, partygoers and revelers and masked strangers and Aramis, who still looks at him askance. “Let’s go inside. I’m sure the queen won’t want us to be gone for too long.”

Aramis shrugs, but Athos takes note that the other musketeer stays closer to him than he had been earlier.

The moon is almost set when they leave the palace.

Aramis lingers with Athos at the foot his building, but the other musketeer leaves after a moment of Athos assuring him he is heading straight for bed for the short amount of time they have left till morning. Aramis’ hand is warm on Athos’ shoulder, and he smiles tightly at the other man as he leaves, Aramis’ own apartments not too far. 

When Athos reaches his small rooms he finally unclenches his fist and stares at the item in his hand, his feet unmoving, the fire unlit, the ghosts of dancers swirling in his head and close enough to touch him, his leather greatcoat buffeted by their skirts and masks. His rooms fade into memory – the bedroom stretches and _she’s_ sitting there at her desk and the field of forget-me-nots is visible outside the window, their fragrance heady and strong as it is night.

She smiles at him and he stops at her side, his hand threading through her thick hair, and she leans her head against his hip and they stare together out the window into the thick country evening, sounds and smells all home to him and he can’t remember being so happy –

The sun is risen barely and the scent of flowers is gone and Athos crosses to the tiny window where he keeps his water bucket and without looking, flings the locket outside, away, gone, far from him and his new life and he _will_ save himself, for he is worth saving.

No matter that she is the only woman that’s ever likely to love him, or the only one he can actively say he’s worth. Poor Ninon; he had cared for her but she’d never had a chance to be able to compete with his memory and his self-loathing and pain.

He groans as the necklace disappears for the second time, and he pulls himself back inside the small apartment, the sun rising, his duty to the musketeers due soon and he straightens, his mouth dry and dust-filled and he finds a bottle and swigs from it and re-fastens his sword belt and replaces his hat on his head.

_We have honor._

That thought straightens his spine and his tiny amount of resolution and damn all the gods, but he _is_ worth saving, and he’s alive and things are different now, yes, but he has survived and he has what is worth living for. Athos may never laugh, but he can spare a smile for his brothers and their love for him.

Even if – only if –

He bites his lip and tastes blood as he descends the stairs and begins the short walk to Treville’s garrison and takes no notice when he passes the place where he’d thrown the locket, the mud of the Paris streets swallowing it as though it never existed.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a treat; I have gotten a few and wanted to pay it forward. 
> 
> I love the idea of Athos being hurt and then realizing his brothers are what keep him going, and he deserves to be loved and supported. 
> 
> Title from the song "Masquerade," from the musical Phantom of the Opera.


End file.
